There was not a sound in the room as he looked at what he had done, and two or three drops of blood fell one by one, very slowly, upon the marble.

On the dazzling white of Don John's doublet there was a small red stain.

As Philip watched it, he thought it grew wider and brighter.
Beyond the door, Dolores had fallen upon her knees, pressing her hands to her temples in an agony beyond thought or expression.

Her fear had risen to terror while she listened to the last words that had been exchanged, and the King's threat had chilled her blood like ice, though she was brave.

She had longed to cry out to Don John to give up her letter or the other, whichever the King wanted--she had almost tried to raise her voice, in spite of every other fear, when she had heard Don John's single word of scorn, and the quick footsteps, the drawing of the rapier from its sheath, the desperate scuffle that had not lasted five seconds, and then the dull fall which meant that one was hurt.
It could only be the King,--but that was terrible enough,--and yet, if the King had fallen, Don John would have come to the door the next instant.